Week 1 Summary (June 10-16, 2002)

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"Wooowhee!" Gunther hollered as he took off his flight helmet. "Now that is what I call flying! I wish I could have seen Mandrake's face beneath his helmet. I'd hate to be the one cleaning out his exo-suit during next shift." Everett breathed a satisfying deep breath, still regulating his breathing after such a tight G-maneuver. "I'd like to see an exo pull that maneuver."

Pausing briefly, he looked around the hangar as he pushed off in the low-gravity toward the flight prep room, eyeing past privates Panoz and Tanaka as if looking for someone. "Hmm, I'll have to congratulate Miss Young on her latest tuning on ol' Susan's verniers," Gunther continued aloud. "Whatever she did, they worked like a dream. Addressing Panoz and Tanaka, Gunther asked, "Where's that cute little Miss Young? I want grab her frizzy mane and kiss both her cheeks for the best joyride I've had in long while."

Panoz and Tanaka looked at one another. "She's over on the bay five flight deck, I think," Panoz, better known to the crew of the Fierce as 'Booger,' replied.

"Yeah," Tanaka, who preferred to go by 'Loogie,' added. "Helping the marines pull all their wedgies out of their armored butts or something."

"The same marines that you nearly plowed into on your way in," Booger said, bouncing his eyebrows. "Ten creds says Gunther here ends up with a black eye before the next shift is over," the deck hand suddenly said to his companion, extending his hand.

Loogie considered. "Naw, I'm not taking that bet. But how about twenty says it's La Rue who does the blackening?"

Booger frowned, then muttered, "Alright -- but it's twenty to me if it's someone else who pops him one."

"Done," Loogie declared as the men shook hands.

Lieutenant Gunther sighed. By now he was used to Booger and Loogie, but still found their antics a little much at times. "Thanks, guys," he said simply, just as something across the flight deck seized the attention of both men like a bolt of lightning.

"B-b-b-babette!" Loogie managed, his eyes riveted to a figure across the bay.

"B-b-b-bingo!" Booger added with emphasis, his eyes wide.

"Gotta go," both men chirped in unison as they sped off towards the young woman who'd gotten their attention. Private Babette Moore hovered a little awkwardly near Susan, Everett's Lancer, wearing nothing more than a pair of curve-hugging belter shorts and a scoop-necked tank top -- not exactly regulation JAF attire.

"Hi guys," the shapely girl said sweetly as the two deck hands scrambled along a series of recessed handholds towards her. "And hello, Lieutenant Gunther, over there," she added in a fairly squeaky voice, looking past the two men at the more distant pilot. "I hope you had a good patrol. You brought little Susie back in one piece, I see. Did you like the floral scent in the cockpit? That was my own personal touch..."

Turning himself around upon reaching the lift that would take him down to the work bay, Gunther's heart leapt, but he quickly regained his composure. "Not as sweet as you, Miss Moore," he responded, laying on a bit of charm. "You continue to take really good care of Susan for me, and I will just have to return the favor sometime soon." He winked and then activated the lift, which dropped him down out of sight.

"C'mon, Young," Sergeant Dumphy commanded as he moved off.

"Erm... coming!" the slightly built private returned. "Nice meeting you, Lieutenant!"

"And you," McGregor quietly replied as she turned back towards the shipping crate. She pulled out a small datapad and connected it to a pair of feeds on the crate's touchpad readout. After confirming that the ATMP's systems were nominal, she slipped the datapad back into a pocket on her uniform and patted the side of the crate. After a few moments of pause, she changed the passcode on the touchpad, keeping her body in between the pad and the hangar's monitoring cameras.

She briefly surveyed the chamber, wondering exactly what Dumphy's problem was with the crate and its location. "Probably doesn't like surprises in his territory," she concluded aloud. "Now then... Ah, there it is."

Keeping her magnetic boots firmly clamped to the floor, she walked carefully to the small first-aid kit on the wall and brought it back to the crate. Opening it up, she was pleased to discover a bottle of burn-treatment cold spray and a spray bottle of rubbing alcohol. "Not really sure how the girl accessed this," she muttered to herself, spraying the alcohol across the touchpad, "but let's play it safe in the fingerprint department..." She wiped the pad clean and sprayed it with the cold spray. "...and the body temperature department." She let the spray evaporate on its own, lowering the temperature across the surface of the pad and masking any residual traces of body heat on frequently pressed keys. "That should do it."

After returning the kit to its wall cradle, McGregor surveyed the chamber again. The sound of clanking on the ceiling above her suggested the marines had returned. "Maybe I can get a few of them to help me move you out of Dumphy's way, huh?" she said to the crate.

She headed for the flight deck.

As the deck crew checked over Swallow 2 and battened her down for the coming burn, Delilah "Dee Dee" Durst had gathered her flight gear and was now preparing to stow it in her ready room locker when her flight leader popped into the room.

"Hey m-bird," she said warmly, turning and drifting towards him. "That was some fancy flying out there. You think we'll catch hell because of it?"

"We'll see," Gunther replied, sneaking a smile. "It will definitely get brought up in the briefing following the ship's burn for sure." Gunther clips his helmet onto its locking clip and then shuts his locker door. "I wouldn't worry yourself. It wasn't exactly our planned flight path, but we had to test out those new vernier adjustments, right?" Gunther paused. "Well, I'll think of something to tell Lieutenant Spencer. Don't forget, I'm flight lead; I'll just say that you were following my direct instructions. You don't need to worry." Looking Dee Dee in the eye, he stated firmly, "And those marines won't be laying a finger on you, not without going through me."

"You're all talk," Dee Dee kidded, shaking her short, sweat-damp red curls free in the microgravity. "And of course I'm going to blame you for that maneuver. Like you said, I was just following your lead!"

"Talk like that can get one assigned extra hours in the simulator corporal," Gunther scolded in a playful manner. He pushed off to leave, then looked back. "I don't know who's more devious, you or me." He pressed the controls to one of the doors leading into the interior work bays. "Get yourself to your acceleration station. I'll catch up with you in a short while," Gunther assured. "There's a young Private that I need to offer my thanks to for her work on our Lancers." The door slid shut behind him as Gunther made his way for Hangar 5.

As Private Cyan smiled smugly to herself, working up a new set of heading and acceleration models for the Fierce, the young man at the navigator station nearby looked as though he'd just accidentally run over his dog. Twice.

"You know, you didn't have to make a big public display like that. I could have tweaked it to make it 'faster' or whatever. Now Delacroix and Messier are going to think I don't know what I'm doing!" Corporal Orr whispered, his face ashen.

"You're navigating for one of the fastest, best-equipped ships in the fleet, Orr. Try plotting a course for her, instead of laying out flight plans for tugs or a solar barge," Private Cyan responded, not even looking up from her console to face the navigator as she inputted her own "corrected" course settings.

"Now, wait a minute," Orr began to protest, still whispering.

"Course laid in and ready," Arianna announced to the rest of the bridge.

"Listen, Private, I've been a navigator for a lot longer than you've been a pilot, and it's my job to find the best courses for my vessel. Sure, you may have found a "shortcut," but look at your acceleration requirements in the first leg," Corporal Orr said, pointing at the screen embedded in Cyan's console. The expression on his face was one of almost total disbelief. "This isn't a drag racer!"

"What's a drag racer?"

"It's a... that's not the point!" Orr responded, obviously flustered. "I know my course could have used some tweaking, but look at the fuel usage charts for your course and then look at mine..."

"We're going into a crisis situation, Orr, so we may need to sacrifice fuel for speed. Apparently the Captain seems to agree with me. She wants my course."

"That's enough, you two," Lindy interrupted. "Orr, I'll need you to file our new flight plan with Traffic."

"Yes, sir," Orr replied. "Sorry, sir."

Leaning in close, Orr whispered a parting comment, "All I'm asking is that next time you check with me before announcing what you think is a better course."

Arianna just smiled, as smug as ever, as Corporal Orr turned back to his station controls.

Mandrake nodded, and felt all eyes on him. "Right. You heard the lady, and you heard me. Let's get this done."

Having watched the exchange with some amusement from the shelter of the passageway, McGregor stepped forward, clearing her throat. "Excuse me, Sergeant," she said, addressing Mandrake. "I wonder if you and some of your people could give me a hand with my bags in the hold below?"

"Bags?" queried Mandrake with some confusion. "We're not the ship's porters you know."

"Figuratively speaking, Sergeant," McGregor explained. "Figuratively speaking. I've got a 40-ton packing crate downstairs that seems to be in the way. I'm not rated on the bay's cargo arms, and I'm hoping you or yours are." She scratched her head. "Come to think of it, though, your exo-suits would probably be quite handy."

Hmm, it wouldn't hurt to keep these hotheads occupied until the pilots are safely out of the way, Mandrake thought to himself. "Okay, Lieutenant, let's see what we can do for you," he replied before turning back to the assembled marines. "Brinks, La Rue, Ng, suit back up on the double, we're going to help the nice Lieutenant with her luggage." Slipping back into his own exo-suit he called out to Sergeant Tucker, "Think you can tuck this lot into bed and read 'em a story before lights out?"

Tucker nodded as she tied a short ponytail at the back of her head. "Yeah, I'll take care of the kids if you want to help the Lieutenant. See you at the EVA debriefing."

Just then, Everett entered the hangar. "Hoa, hey," he stated. "I am looking for Miss Young. I was told that she was in hangar five." Ignoring baleful stares from some of the marines, he added, "You haven't seen her have you?"

McGregor turned to face the newcomer. "Private Young and Sergeant Dumphy went to check on the inbound fighters in bays..." She paused a moment, thinking. "Three and four. I think that means you, Lieutenant." McGregor studied the man, wondering when he'd slip and she'd be able to haul him off to the brig. She'd met him only two days ago, and his womanizing attitude had immediately gotten on her nerves. A little quiet time in solitary might do the man some good.

"Not quite as frigid since the last time we met, eh?" Everett deflected back. "Still, you're a pleasant sight to see." He smiled, giving her a wink. "I hope that you are feeling in better spirits today?"

"We'll see," McGregor replied curtly. "There are still about two hours left for the day to go sour, Lieutenant." She turned to face Mandrake. "Shall we head below, Sergeant? Incidentally, why have they stopped the rotors?" She waved vaguely towards the rear of the flight deck, in the direction of the habitat ring. "There was no announcement of a burn."

Everett, keenly aware that no one seemed too interested in conversation, made his exit known. "Well, thanks. I'll go back down and check out hangars three and four." As he exited, he glanced back at McGregor, who now had her back to him, and slipped out a parting remark. "Nice backside Lieutenant, you've been working out." He then quickly disappeared down a ladder to the work bay.

Corporal La Rue ground her teeth as the pilot exited. Barely able to contain herself during his conversation with McGregor, she finally snapped. "That little punk!" she exclaimed. Turning to Lieutenant McGregor, she said, "You want me to kick the shit out of him for that?" Fury burned in the woman's eyes, and there was no doubt she'd do just that if given the go-ahead.

McGregor briefly considered the notion, but decided the paperwork wouldn't be worth it. "It wouldn't be a fair fight, Corporal -- a marine versus a flyboy? Have you ever seen these guys throw a punch? Makes an m-pod look like a ballet dancer. Thanks, though, and I promise you, if and when he needs to visit the brig, you're on the short list of escorts for the man." Sizing up the suited marines, McGregor gestured towards the crew elevator to the work bay. "Shall we? We've got a crate to move."

"Right, we'd better get a move on. There was a burn announced about ten minutes ago, you know," Harry replied as he showed McGregor a datapad displaying the burn order. "And please don't encourage the children, the last thing I need is a flyboy in the sickbay and a marine in the brig," he continued in a lower voice.

McGregor studied the datapad, wondering why she hadn't heard the announcement. "Sorry, Sergeant. You're quite right. I'm just trying to bond a little."

A few clanking steps brought La Rue over to the ladder Gunther had escaped down, the magnets in her Decker's boots keeping her firmly affixed to the deck. As she peered after the pilot, her body language was surprisingly evident despite the bulk of her exo-suit.

As he floated over to the elevator, Harry pulled up alongside La Rue. "You'd better cool it Corporal, I've got my eye on you."

Damn wild goose chase, Everett thought to himself. This Miss Young really gets around. He finally reached the access door to hangar four, peered in and called out, "Miss Young?"

Private Young's head popped out from behind an m-pod she had just about finished securing. "Right here," she declared, adjusting her glasses to see who'd called her name.

"Ah," Gunther acknowledged, pushing off toward Young. "I am sure you're busy, but I wanted to thank you for the work you did on Dee Dee and my Lancers. The new vernier adjustments worked like a dream." He grabbed a hold of a handgrip on the M-pod that Private Young was securing, steadying himself.

"Just... uh, y'know, doin' my job," the girl answered, not making eye contact with the handsome pilot.

Sensing Young's shyness, Gunther moved a bit closer, his eyes focused on her face. "Well, I know that I often come across with a devil-may-care attitude, but I do notice things. You needn't be too modest."

Still unwilling to make eye contact, Private Young's cheeks colored, and she fiddled slightly with one of her sleeves.

"I like you, Miss Young," Gunther continued. You're the best talent on this flight deck in my book. I'm looking forward to..."

Suddenly, Lieutenant McGregor's voice boomed over the loudspeaker, and Private Young nearly jumped out of her skin, tumbling head over heels off the m-pod with a yelp.

Gunther winced at the volume. "Damn, what is that woman in a bind about now?" He then saw Miss Young spinning out of control, pushed off, and reached out to catch on of her flailing hands. Grasping it firmly as he gracefully flipped himself over, his boots touched the hangar wall, stopping both of them fairly gently. Young fell against Gunther's breast all legs and arms. Seconds seemed to pass slowly for a brief instant, then Gunther spoke, still holding Young's hand. "Whoa, you all right?"

Young, slightly breathless, finally looked the pilot straight in the eyes. Her hair was completely out of control and her eyeglasses hung crookedly on her face, but there was no denying that the girl was cute when she was frazzled -- which was frequently. "Um... I guess I'm okay..." she answered, almost cross-eyed as she focused on Gunther's face, which was mere inches away from her own.

Even Gunther felt a little flushed looking down into Young's adorable face. He was a bit taken aback, and helped the young woman right herself. "Good... well, like I said. You did a great job on those verniers." He then pushed off the wall, facing backward toward the still slightly bewildered Private Young. "Um, I think I'll be going now. I need to check on Dee Dee and get strapped in for the acceleration burn myself... and you need to finish too. Bye."

With that, Gunther slipped through a door and out of the hangar, leaving a still, slightly bewildered Private to her work.

The platform ground to a gentle stop and Lieutenant McGregor, flanked by four exo-suited marines, stepped out into the work bay. "And there it is," she said gesturing over her shoulder, "the crate in question. We need to move it out of..." Her voice trailed off as she turned to face the empty spot where the shipping crate had stood.

"Fascinating," she said. She walked to the crate's former location, paced around a few moments, and returned to the marines.

"Well, Sergeant, my crate is missing, as you can see. Technically, under JAF General Order 7, 'Concerning the Handling of Classified Property,' this is a matter of national security. I am now supposed to order you to lock down the entire bay area, alert the captain to send in more marines, and begin conducting interviews of everyone present." She gestured to the bustling activity in the bay and sighed heavily. "I really don't want to make you look like a bunch of assholes, though. Hang on. I'll be right back."

Harry exchanged a bemused look with the other marines but said nothing. Disappearing crates, national security, these JAFI types were obviously a little excitable.

McGregor strode off towards the Bay 5 duty station, her stride determined and unhesitant. Finding the station unattended, she switched on the microphone and addressed the work bays. "May I have your attention, please? Would the deck manager come to the Bay 5 duty station immediately? Repeat, deck manager to duty station 5. On the double." Glancing up at the silent speaker in the corner of the bay, she added, "And someone get a work order filed to repair the P.A. system in Bay 5."

In short order the deck officer arrived -- Master Sergeant Lonnie Dumphy. The expression on his red face made it clear that he was not happy (though, in truth, he rarely was). "Now what's all the -- hey, you again?! What is it now, Lieutenant?" Out of the corner of his eye, Dumphy caught sight of the loitering marines. "WHAT THE?!" he shouted, his face turning even redder. "Get out of my hangar, you knuckleheads! Get those suits back up onto the flight deck where they won't be in the way! We're going to burn in less than thirty minutes, for God's sake -- I've got to have this hangar ready!"

"Hello, Sergeant," McGregor said. "I'm very sorry to be interfering with your work here. I took it upon myself to move my crate while you were busy elsewhere." She gestured over her shoulder. "I asked them to give me a hand, since I'm not rated on the cargo arms. Unfortunately," she said, her tone remaining as calm as possible so as not to upset the man further, "when we got here, the crate was gone. Do you know where it has gotten to? I hate to mention this, but the contents are Top Secret and very much a matter of national defense. As soon as I know where it is, I'll get out of your hair."

Scowling harder than ever (it actually looked painful), Sergeant Dumphy turned to look at where the crate had rested earlier. "Top secret? Great, what is it some kind of super-bomb?"

As Harry watched Dumphy and McGregor argue with an air of resigned patience, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. Corporal La Rue was trying to sneak out of the other end of the bay, not as inconspicuous as she might wish in her exo-suit. "La Rue!" he shouted, his amplified voice cutting across the bay. "Get back here this instant." Harry glowered at her as she came to halt in front of him. "What the hell do you think you were doing? I haven't got time to deal with you right now, so shut up, don't move a muscle and don't touch anything until I give you a direct order otherwise."

There was a hint of defiance in the woman's posture, but she said nothing under the sergeant's steady eye. "Yes sir," she said simply, her own amplified voice clear and clean. Ng and Brinks exchanged glances with one another; they'd never heard such flint in Mandrake's tone.

In response to Dumphy's question, McGregor shook her head curtly. "No, sir, nothing like that. I'm afraid I can't tell you what it is at this time, however."

"Well, whatever," Dumphy growled, continuing to look around. "I don't know where it's gotten to. Hey, Elsworth -- get your ass over here!"

A deck hand standing nearby looked up and around in a slow, almost lizard-like fashion. "Hmmm?" he said. "Someone call me?"

"Get over here!" Dumphy repeated. "There was a crate here not ten or fifteen minutes ago -- did you see what happened to it?"

"A crate?" Corporal Elsworth asked.

"Yes, a big crate. Containing an ATMP for one of the Lancers. Probably had 'Top secret' marked on it somewhere."

"Top secret?" Elsworth repeated.

Veins throbbed in Dumphy's head, and when he spoke it was through gritted teeth. "Look, Corporal, there used to be a crate secured to the deck right here, and it didn't just walk away. I want--"

"Oh, that crate. Right," Elsworth remembered. "I moved it. Put in the rear cargo bay not five or six minutes ago. It was heavy."

"Why didn't you say so!?" Dumphy exclaimed.

"I did just say so," Elsworth said slowly, not understanding the sergeant's fury. Pointing to the wall of the work bay that became the floor when the ship was under acceleration, he added, "It's just right in there."

Sputtering loudly but not actually saying anything, Sergeant Dumphy moved to a nearby control panel and punched a number of buttons. With a resounding click-clack sound, part of the wall in front of the group split into a pair of wide-opening doors which rolled back to reveal a large cargo hold. Long tracks of lights flickered to life, illuminating dozens of containers, all stacked and fastened neatly together. The missing create was at the front of the pile.

"There's your damned secret weapon," Dumphy sighed. "Now will you please get out of the hangar so we can lock it down?" Looking over at the idle marines, he added, "And take them with you!"

McGregor smiled politely. "Thank you, Corporal, Master Sergeant. I'm very sorry to have taken up your time." She returned to the marines. "Well, mystery solved. The cargo appears to be in the cargo hold. Sorry to have wasted your time, folks. I'll buy you dinner when we're next in port. In the meantime, I have to inspect the crate."

A low growl escaped from her stomach. "Hm. Speaking of dinner...," she muttered as she headed off for the cargo hold.

Seeing they had been abruptly dismissed, Harry turned to the waiting marines. "Okay, looks like the national emergency is over. Let's get out of here and get the suits stowed before somebody reports a cat up a tree."

Vice Valkurie walked to the spinal lift and pressed the 'Down' button. How long had it been since the two had last met? There was a brief moment where Vice had hoped that time had quelled the recklessness in the other pilot, but he could only smile at his own foolishness.

As Valkurie entered the arrived car, he wondered if it was Everett's turn to throw the first punch or his.

The elevator doors closed and the lift began making its way down to the pilot's briefing room. It stopped shortly before reaching its destination, however, at the hangar level. The doors slid open, and there stood Everett A. Gunther... one time friend and longtime rival -- enemy, even -- of Valkurie's.

There was a brief second before Gunther burst, "Oh shit." He then regained some composure, brandishing his broad smile. "Vice! Going my way?"

Vice continued to lean against the side of the car, his arms crossed in front of him. He only smiled at Gunther's surprise. "And here I was hoping to make a more dramatic entrance," he said as he looked up. "It's good to see that you haven't managed to kill yourself yet. I guess I'll still have a chance to repay you back for that stunt you pulled at Antec Station."

Gunther smiled, appearing to relax, and then stepped onboard the lift. "Well, you always had bad timing," he tossed back. "Your biggest problem has always been that you wait too long. Patience is not always a virtue," he stated emphatically. "That is, of course, unless you are on the receiving end of it," Gunther shrugged in mid sentence, "then it's great."

"So instead I should follow your example and run off half-cocked?" Vice looked up at Gunther and for the first time in over a year, the two pilots locked eyes. "I don't think so. 'All good things succumb to those who wait,' a wise man once said." Vice uncrossed his arms and pulled out a small deck of cards, which he proceeded to shuffle one-handed. "I just hope that you will take this posting a little more seriously than the last time that we served together."

Gunther chuckled. "Is that what you think? That I don't take my career, my posting, seriously?" He pointed his thumb at his chest. "I run off half-cocked? Dude, now I know why they say about exo-pilots -- Linear frame, linear brain." Gunther pointed his finger straight at Vice. "What do you think you did when you pulled that stunt on me at our last posting together? Tell me, was that a full-cocked or a half-cocked response? I'd like to know." At that, Gunther threw up his hands. "On second thought, I don't. I don't have the time to deal with your incessant brooding over the past right now. You were always a narcissistic nutcase, you know that." At that point, the lift door opened out on the hall that led toward the briefing room.

"So I'm a Narcissistic Nutcase now?" Vice stopped shuffling his deck of cards and drew the top card. The card held between his fingers, the pilot turned it around so that Everett could see what it was. "I'd rather be a nutcase outside of the cockpit than one inside of it," Vice retorted as he slowly waved the recently drawn Joker card before returning it to the deck. "I will admit that I have done some things that were half-cocked. What happened on the Fearless for example. I have never treated my Exo as my own personal hotrod however, as some people tend to."

Vice gestured to the open elevator door. "In any case our briefing awaits. After you Old Friend." Linear Frame, Linear Brain. Vice thought about the comment and had to chuckle. It was rather funny.

Gunther just growled and shook his head as he walked out of the elevator and proceeded toward the briefing room.

Shining a flashlight on the crate, McGregor inspected the sides for signs of intrusion. Her datapad was hooked into the touchpads feeds, analyzing access records to see if anyone -- Corporal Elsworth, for instance -- had tampered with the security. The datapad hung nearly motionless in space, its tiny diodes blinking as it processed away.

Getting towards the rear of the container, McGregor's eyebrows came forward as she examined one of lower corners. Running her fingers along the edge where the composite material of the crate formed a seam, she confirmed her fears. Someone had tampered with the container. It wasn't a butcher-job, but there was no denying someone had tried to pry their way inside... with a hand tool, probably, which may have meant that the individual or individuals didn't have the time or opportunity to use more persuasive means.

"Amateurs," she hissed under her breath. However, considering what this meant, the JAFI officer turned towards her datapad when it chimed lightly. Sure enough, someone had tried to gain access through more conventional means as well. Between 0041 and 0048 -- nearly twenty two hours earlier, someone had tried to access the manifest and unlock the crate no fewer than a dozen times via the keypad. They looked to be manual -- and therefore trivial -- hacking attempts, but that fact that any at all were made unsettled the young lieutenant. There were also signs of Private Young's more recent and much more successful electronic intrusion. She, in fact, had gotten past fully half of the crate's security measures. The digital trail left behind by Young indicated that she'd very likely used a cracking device of some kind.

Harry locked his exo-suit into place in its cradle and checked the status telltales: all green. Looking around he saw the other marines had also finished shutting down their suits and were looking at him expectantly. "We'd better hustle to acceleration stations, the ship's going to be pulling gees in about ten minutes," he told them. As Brinks and Ng headed for the door Harry put his hand on La Rue's shoulder and motioned to her to let the other two marines go ahead. "Okay La Rue, what's your problem? I don't appreciate having my orders ignored in front of an officer. Especially not by a Corporal who should know better."

La Rue was quiet for a moment, and almost had trouble meeting the sergeant's gaze. Finally, though, she did catch his eyes, and the fire that had been present earlier flashed again briefly. "That idiot pilot, Gunther -- he's going to get away with that stunt, I hope you know that. He'll keep pulling that kind of crap until someone gets hurt. Or until someone lets him know the hard way he shouldn't do it anymore." Her expression softened a little, but Mandrake could still sense aggression boiling through the woman's veins. "I wasn't trying to disrespect you, sir. I just know we can't officially sit down with that shithead, so I figured I'd do it myself."

Harry was silent for a moment as the elevator arrived back up. "Gunther's a show off, La Rue. Just don't give him the attention he wants," he sighed. "Look, I'm sure Duran was just as unimpressed with Gunther's little stunt as you were. He'll have a word with Lieutenant Spencer and he'll make Gunther pull his head in." He looked La Rue in the eye to make sure she was digesting this. "Until then I want you to stay away from him. No point you getting in trouble for his screw up, is there?"

La Rue grudgingly admitted that Sergeant Mandrake had a point. "No sir," she said after a moment's pause. The pair exited the hangar and got onto the spinal lift. "I'll try to steer clear of him." Stretching her well-muscled arms and shoulders by clasping her hands behind her back, the Corporal added, "So what's the story with us getting underway already? I thought we weren't supposed to ship out until next week."

Harry shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, we'll know more when Duran gets back from the briefing. Can't be anything too major though, or Geiersburg would have sent something other than the Fierce." Harry looked at La Rue contemplatively. He was glad she had dropped the topic of Lieutenant Gunther, but wondered if she always had such a short fuse. He hoped he wouldn't have to be constantly keeping her out of trouble. "Tell me Corporal, where were you stationed before the Fierce?" he asked as the elevator arrived at their destination.

Pulling herself out onto the transfer deck that allowed for access to the rotor arms and therefore habitats -- which by now were stationary, fixed in their flight position -- Corporal La Rue moved wordlessly along in the near zero-gravity. When the pair began their ascent up the arm towards Habitat 1 on a high-speed lift, she answered.

"I was aboard the Henry Every for almost two years before coming to the Fierce." Trying to anticipate his next question, she added, "The captain of that boat was a grade-A moron. He had it out for me from the beginning, and I eventually ended up getting transferred because of his inability to deal with a woman who he couldn't bully, and who could kick his ass."

"Five minutes to burn," an announcement sounded over the ship's loudspeakers.

Harry smiled wryly. "Let's see if we can't avoid you having to kick Captain Delacroix's ass. Catch you later La Rue," he said as he headed for the men's dormitory.

"Priiiiivate!" Dumphy bellowed. "What the hell are you doing back there?! Get down to the accel floor!"

Private Young looked up with a start from where she'd been hovering, somewhere between dazed and deep in thought, near the wall where Gunther had left her. Blinking several times, she straightened her glasses and hair. "Yes sir," she said, quickly pulling herself down the wall towards the aft end of the bay. "Sorry, sir."

Sergeant Dumphy watched the frazzled girl speed past him with narrowed eyes. "Damn kids," he muttered under his breath.

"Everything alright, Sergeant?" Lieutenant Tweet, the ship's deck commander asked, just now arriving on the scene.

Dumphy nodded. "Yes sir. We had some trouble getting cleaned up because pilots, marines and JAFI officers all seemed determined to overstay their welcomes, but we're all set to go now. We've got green in all six bays."

Tweet surveyed the bay. "Good work. I trust that JAFI officer -- McGregor, is it? I trust she found her equipment in satisfactory condition?"

"Far as I know," Dumphy shrugged. "She threw a little hissy fit when it got moved during the clean-up for the burn, but she seemed satisfied enough once we located it. Just what is it? Some kind of weapon?"

"I don't know. They've been quite secretive about it so far. Word has it that it's a prototype of some kind. I expect we'll know more once she gets it unpacked." Tweet looked at his watch. "Almost time to get underway -- nice job here. I'll see you next watch."

"Yes sir."

Lieutenant Messier touched the screen in front of him. The hangar had finally reported being ready. "All decks reported in, all systems go, captain, we are ready for burn."

Captain Delacroix nodded. "Good. Private Cyan, your course is locked in?"

"Yes ma'am," Cyan returned.

Delacroix punched a button on the console in front of her. "All hands, this is your Captain. Estimated burn time is forty-one hours and twelve minutes. Engines fire in thirty seconds. Stand by."

Private Arianna Cyan watched the digital countdown with baited breath. She'd been waiting for this moment her whole career. Since coming aboard, she'd gotten to make some minor adjustments to the ship's attitude, but she'd not yet had the opportunity to really see what the Fierce could do. Checking the alignment of the drive fins one last time, the rookie helmsman announced the twenty, ten and five second marks, then called out mark as the countdown reached zero.

Slamming the throttle wide open, Cyan smiled as she felt the ship's fusion engines rumble to full power. The bridge crew were thrown back briefly into their seats by nearly a full gee of force, and all across the ship the surprise jolt of acceleration caught people off-guard. When helmsmen Poulo or Eroll were at the controls, the initial acceleration had always been smooth and gradual, taking almost five minutes to get up to full thrust. Cyan had gone straight to full power.

"Easy, Cyan," Delacroix said uncomfortably, gripping the armrests of her seat as the ship shuddered and groaned slightly.

"We're off course!" Orr, the navigator, suddenly announced.

Messier punched up a screen and frowned. "We've got some mass shifting around -- mostly the H2O. Private --"

"On it, compensating," Cyan called out loudly, making some seat-of-the-pants adjustments to get back on the proper vector.

The ship rumbled on for another minute before settling into its proper acceleration envelope. We're... back on course," Orr declared.

"On target and at speed," Cyan said brightly.

"Good work," Delacroix congratulated the helmsman carefully, "but next time get us there a little more gently."

"Five minutes to burn," an announcement sounded over the ship's loudspeakers.

Still pondering the meaning of the break-in attempts, McGregor looked up in surprise at the announcement. "Already?" she wondered aloud. There really wasn't any time to get anywhere else in the ship, which bothered her a little bit. "Well," she continued to herself, "you're no quickship. You can't pull more than eight-tenths. I should be fine here. Assuming there's a jump seat." She glanced around the cargo bay until she spotted several on the wall that would be the direction of 'down' when the ship was under acceleration.

Her datapad in hand, Lieutenant McGregor strapped herself in to the folding seat and waited patiently for the burn. "I suppose I'm just making my black mark bigger now in Dumphy's book. Pity."

Someone flopped down into the seat next to the McGregor and jostled the woman roughly as she worked at her datapad. "Uh, sorry," the frizzy-haired deck hand said before doing a double take. "Eep! L-Lieutenant McGregor! Sorry about bumping you!"

McGregor flipped shut the cover of her PDA with practiced ease. "Hello, Private. I wouldn't worry about it -- at worst, you've inadvertently caused me to delete a stack of reports from HQ, and I can't thank you enough." She winked. "I'm kidding. Actually, I was just thinking about you."

Young was awful at hiding her anxiety, and her eyes widened behind her glasses. "Y-you were?"

Surreptitiously studying the young woman, McGregor continued. "I hope Lieutenant Gunther didn't pester you too much. He came down to Five looking for you, and I sent him your way in Three without thinking about it. You have my apologies if he harassed you."

Before the private could respond, a voice sounded over the PA system. "All hands. Twenty seconds to burn." McGregor raised a nonchalant eyebrow at Young, like the whole thing was overrated. "Ten... Five... Mark."

"Sweet mother of God!" McGregor exclaimed, straining against the sudden lurch. "Who the hell is at the controls of this thing?"

"Whoop!" Young cried, pressed back into her seat. After a few seconds, when the shock of the rapid acceleration faded, she added, "This must be the new helmsman -- Cyan, I think her name is."

Regaining her composure, McGregor shook her head. "Great," she said flatly. "Well, lucky for us this ship can't even pull a full gee, or we'd be paste. So tell me, Private: do you have any idea why we're suddenly shipping out? We weren't scheduled to burn for almost another week yet."

Young shook her head. "No idea. But I tend to be the last to find out that sort of thing."

"Well," replied McGregor, "I'll race you to last place." A growl escaped her stomach again. "Ah. It's very late and I haven't eaten a thing all day. I'm going to head upstairs, er downstairs, I guess, from where we are now, and grab some chow. Care to join me? I think I'm going to make my way towards the marines' galley. I'll probably be there until 0200 or 0300 if you're still on duty now."

Young shook her head, her hair flatter than before but still utterly out-of-control. "I'm still on duty, but maybe I'll see you there around 0100 or so? I think I'll want to grab something before I turn in." Unbuckling herself from the acceleration seat, the slim private seemed much more relaxed than she had been. "I'll see you around!" she said spiritedly, launching herself into the air. She came crashing to the floor a split-second later. "Ow," she said into the deck plate she was spread-eagled on. Getting up with a slight stagger, she added, "Why do I always forget about that?"

McGregor peered at the young woman, wondering exactly the same question herself. An attempt at misdirection? Appear flighty and spacey in order to mask the devious mind within? Or genuinely ungainly and nervous? McGregor shrugged and laughed lightly. "I was that way, too," she lied, "first time I set foot on a ship. The Marathon, it was -- an Athena-class." She walked over to the private, surprisingly relieved to be feeling some weight on her feet at last. Offering a hand to steady her, she added, "There's an embarrassing situation for you. The Athena's my namesake, you know, and there I was, tripping over every bulkhead I crossed. I never heard the end of it. Anyway, Private, be a little more careful." She winked.

Fixing her askew glasses, Young set off again, this time on foot. "Okay. Bye!"

McGregor nodded after the woman and returned to the jump seat. She wrote a small question mark on her PDA next to Private Young's name. A growl reminded her once again of her need to eat. "Yes, yes, settle down," she said, patting her belly. "Soon enough."

"Are we clear?" Warrant Officer Juan Poulo, now seated at the helm, asked lowly but sharply.

Private Cyan merely nodded, still stinging at the quiet dressing-down she'd gotten at the hands of the senior helmsman.

"Private," the man pressed, "Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir," she finally answered, curtly.

"Good. Now get going. Spend some time talking about this with Eroll if you can. He's a miserable pilot too, but he's a damn sight better than you."

Sergeant Tucker looked over at Sergeant Mandrake, seated beside her. Both sat across from Officer Duran, who'd just explained the situation with the runaway Hanson sled. "So there's no indication of what might have caused it?" she asked.

"No," Duran answered. "But we hope to know a lot more when we get into position to have a look at it with the telescopes and sensors. I'd say the smart money is on some kind of pirate group. Who knows if that's the case, though -- a sled's kind of a strange target. Most of the passengers are sleepers, and don't exactly travel with a lot of valuables if you know what I mean."

"What about a malfunction?" Tucker wondered.

"Possible, but unlikely given that the backup systems have backup systems on those things. This has never happened before."

"Maybe the sled hit something and it went straight through the control systems," offered Harry. "Anyway, what data do we have on the sled? We should set up some tactical simulations."

"We did get some schematics," Duran said while touching a few keys on the computer terminal to his right. "Right here." Tucker and Mandrake shifted to be able to see the screen, which the marine commander turned towards them.

On the display, several series of deck plans flashed by until a three-dimensional computer model of one of the sleds appeared. Long and boxy, each of the Hanson sleds was over 2000 meters long, and 200 wide. It's sides, top and bottom were covered with detachable modules of varying sizes; cargo containers, sleeper pods, passenger cars -- all manner of shapes and sizes. A small cluster of fusion engines powered each sled, though they gained most of their velocity from the 200 kilometer long marvel-of-engineering massdrivers near Callisto that flung the sleds into the orbits that would take them to one Trojan state, around the sun, to the other Trojan state and then back to Olympus. Because of the distances involved, the entire trip took more than six years.

Duran gestured at the screen. "You can see all the different modules attached to the outside of this thing -- that's where everything remotely valuable is. Cargo, people, whatever. Those are all supposed to drop off at their destination and decelerate to a stop while the sled keeps right on going. Of course, that's what didn't happen here. In any case, there isn't much to the guts of this thing. There's some engineering decks, life support systems, some recreation areas for the passengers who aren't sleepers, and," he pointed to the midsection of the sled, "the control systems are all in here. The navigation computers, remote helm controls -- it's all located on a few decks in the middle of the sled."

The screen switched to an overhead 2D blueprint. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of access tunnels honeycombed the sled. "Here's where the problem is. There are maintenance tunnels running just about every which way in these damned things. If we have to clean those out... well, that's a big job. And I doubt we can get Deckers in some of these areas."

Duran left the schematic up on the screen. "Back to your point, Mandrake. Running some simulations and drills would be helpful." He thumbed at the sled. "But how the hell do we simulate that environment?"

"Couldn't we use these schematics with our exo-suits' combat environment simulation system, sir?" asked Harry as he frowned at the display -- there was no way they could properly cover the two kilometer length of the sled with just fifteen marines.

"Yes," Duran answered, nodding. "Though it'll be a pretty weak representation of the real thing because of the scale alone. I'm not a big proponent of VR sim training in any case -- nothing beats lives exercises."

"Right, but I think it would be useful to work through a couple of different possible scenarios -- terrorist attack, major systems failure, crew mutiny and so on." Harry gestured at the display. "It would be helpful if the squads had some familiarity with the internal layout before we arrived."

Tucker examined the deck plans a little harder. "It looks like we're going to have to break down into small two or three man teams to cover ground effectively, if it turns out we have to go inside. VR training will at least let us work on that aspect -- on command and control of the sub-teams."

Duran nodded again, but still didn't seem entirely convinced. "Anything else?" he asked.

Mandrake nodded. "Yes sir. Is the Fierce carrying anything in the way of surveillance or search and rescue drones? With such a large area to cover some extra pairs of eyes could be a lifesaver. Also, do we have a crew and passenger list?"

"Drones? Not that I know of, no," Duran wiped a hand through his buzz-cut. "But I'll double check on that. We might be able to make use of the m-pods or something, if we're just talking surveillance. Regarding the crew and passengers," the burly marine punched another few buttons on his computer, bringing up a crew and passenger manifest, "we've got record of 'em. 923 passengers, 12 crew -- a skeleton crew, to say the least."

"Just one last thing, sir." Harry hesitated as he headed for the door. "A couple of the marines were expressing, ah, concern about the piloting ability of Lieutenant Gunther. Perhaps you could have a word with Lieutenant Spencer about it before there's an accident."

"Already taken care of, sergeant. I reported the incident to Spencer and Messier right after we got back to the ship. And that rookie flight controller -- she filed an official report. Gutsy girl, considering Gunther is something of a favorite on board. We just need to focus on keeping our kids away from him for a little while, till everybody cools off a little."

Senior Lieutenant Elliot "Snipe" Spencer looked out at the men and women of the Redtails Squadron. Every pilot on the ship -- there were a dozen, including Spencer -- was present, and the briefing room was packed to capacity. Spencer, who commanded the squadron, was well known for liking the active parts of his job more than the administrative. It was with some excitement that he'd explained the situation with the sled, the Fierce's pursuit of it, and how the squadron would be responsible for being first on the scene when the two kilometer long vessel was located.

"Alright. I want everyone on top of their game for this -- let's show Delacroix and Messier what this squadron can do. Questions?"

Lieutenant Alora Gilding, the leader of Finch Flight, cocked her head slightly. Her silver hair cascaded down over her narrow shoulders, and her voice was mildly aloof, almost bored when she spoke. "These Hanson sleds... they're entirely unmanned?"

Spencer nodded. "More or less. There is a small service crew aboard for part of the journey, but they're not responsible for the thing's flight path. That's dependent on the massdrivers used to get the sled up to speed, and on the onboard computers to make course corrections and that sort of thing. Same thing with the passenger pods being dropped off -- all automated."

Private Collins raised her hand, and Spencer pointed to the attractive young woman with a smile. "Collins?"

"Will the marines be involved in this?"

"Er... yes, it's likely," Spencer returned, not quite sure where the girl was headed.

"Then you better ground Mockingbird -- from what I hear, if those marines see him out there, they're going to shoot him down."

Vice smiled and leaned forward in his seat, just to within earshot of Gunther. "Making new friends are we?" he whispered, "Maybe I should buy them some drinks."

"You could pick up my tab if you'd like," Gunther whispered back in retort. "...then you could tell them your drunken tales of woe."

Chuckles caused by Collins' comment reverberated around the room, and Spencer half-smiled when they died out. "Don't worry about that. Lieutenant Gunther and I are going to have a little chat after this briefing, isn't that right, Lieutenant?"

Holding back a smile, Gunther replied, "Yes sir, I anticipated that."

"Right. Anything else?"

Gunther raised his hand and asked, "Will we be running regular flight patrols during our approach? I guess I'm just curious how sure the captain is that the sled is where they think it is. It may have gone off course."

Spencer nodded. "We'll be running shortened patrols while the Fierce is burning, regular shifts when we're coasting. Last word was that the transponder on board the sled wasn't transmitting, so we don't really know where it is. We have a last known position, vector and velocity, though, so we've made a best guess. Hopefully it'll be right where it's supposed to be, but you all need to be prepared for some long range patrols if we get to the intercept point and it isn't there."

Vice half raised a hand. "Two questions, sir. Are we anticipating any opposition on this mission? What is the cargo on the sled?"

Several heads turned to look at Valkurie as he spoke. Who was this handsome new pilot? He looked almost like a vid-star.

Spencer shrugged. "There's no way for us to know about opposition until we get in close enough to have a look. So we assume 'yes,' of course. As far as cargo goes, you name it, it's on board -- provided that it's not something that's particularly valuable. These sleds are mostly unmanned, and pretty slow, all things considered. Anything that has any real value usually goes via courier or transport ship. Sleds tend to contain a lot of raw materials, low-yield ore and that sort of thing. Our biggest concern here is the almost 1000 people on board."

When there were no further questions, Spencer finished up. "One last thing before you're dismissed, boys and girls. Some of you have already met out new exo-armor pilot, Vice Valkurie. For the rest of you, here he is. Treat him like he's one of your own, people, because as of right now, he is."

"Vice Valkurie?!" Corporal Durst whispered, leaning over to talk in Private Collins' ear. "Valkurie?! He's that ace from the battle of Elysee!" Both women turned around to look at the dark-haired exo-armor ace.

"Oh, and take a trip to the hangar at some point to check out his exo. It's quite a machine. Dismissed." Spencer said. Looking up at Gunther, he added, "Except you, Gunther."

"Yes sir, Lieutenant," Gunther responded, giving a shoddy salute. He remained in his seat.

Vice filed out with the rest of the members of his new squadron. He had not had a chance to meet many of them. Only his new wingman 'Fenris' McLean and even that was a very short introduction in the hangar. That Lancer pilot Durst had recognized his name and had known of his reputation. Of all the pilots that Vice had seen in the briefing room, he decided that she would be the first one that he would introduce himself to as there was already some measure of familiarity.

"To the mess hall then," he muttered under his breath.

With the other pilots on their way out, the squadron commander came to the front row of seats and put his leg up on one of the now empty chairs. When he and Gunther were alone, he asked, "Just what the hell did you think you were doing today, Gunther? Do you know that Corporal Wickter has officially reported the incident? I've no choice but to discipline you. I'm docking you a week's pay, and if something like this happens again, I'll ground you. Clear?"

Gunther frowned, trying to hide his reaction to the bite of Spencer's directive. "Yeah, I understand." Gunther's face turned slightly sheepish. "I guess I got too excited about pushing the new vernier adjustments that Private Young performed on Susan. I wanted to push her and my technique a bit before finishing my patrol. I'd bet you I'm close to being able to really take on an exo in a close-in dogfight with some more practice on my technique."

"Don't be a cowboy, Gunther. I'm not totally ignorant of what it's like out there... of the sheer thrill of it. I did some fancy -- and stupid -- flying in my earlier days as well, and I'll warn you right now that it'll catch up to you if you're not careful. Pick your moments, Lieutenant. I'm not asking you to start flying like Meltwater -- just be a little more aware of when to cool it. And don't set a bad example for Dee Dee. She's impulsive enough as it is."

"Well, my impulsive style has helped me and those under my command so far," Gunther retorted, looking Spencer in the eye. "I didn't get to be where I am by just playing by the book." Spencer seemed unmoved by Gunther's rebuttal. His gaze was unchanged, and he didn't answer Gunther's challenge. Gunther looked down at the floor, taking a deep breath and pausing in contemplation. Finally he looked up, straightening himself in his chair. "But I get the picture, just don't be stupid."

"Right. And one last thing. Don't butt heads with Valkurie. I've read both of your service records, and it's pretty obvious that the two of you don't like one another. Leave the petty personal disputes behind. I don't want to have to discipline one or both of you because of some juvenile grudge."

"Believe me, I like it less than you," Gunther stated, attempting an honest confession. "He's the one with the problem. He hates me, and that's why I have a problem with him." Gunther looked Spencer dead in the eye. "I'll steer clear of him as best I can. You can trust me on that. I wish he wasn't on board... too many bad memories."

Spencer grimaced. "Well, get over it. You're squadron mates now, and I expect you to act like it. Dismissed, Lieutenant. Keep yourself out of trouble. I know a lot of the fresh faces on board belong to cute girls... I don't want another complaint filed for at *least* a week."

"Yes sir," Gunther sighed. "By the way, do you see any opportunity for me to conduct training maneuvers after this mission? I've been working with Dee Dee on her G-Handling skills, as well as improving mine. I'd like the opportunity to put in some actual flight hours on new maneuvers that I've been working on through the computer. The primary focus would be furthering Dee Dee's training, of course."

"We can probably make arrangements of some kind," the Senior Lieutenant returned, impressed with Gunther's enthusiasm. "But first we need to just focus on the mission at hand." Thinking of something the captain hold told him during the briefing, Spencer added, "We might even have a bit of a special operation for you, depending on what happens." Seeing the man's eyes light up, the squadron commander lifted his hand. "Not now, Gunther, maybe not at all. I'll brief you on the situation if and when the time comes."

Gunther jumped out of his seat, finally projecting his first fully genuine smile of the conversation. "No sir, I understand. Thank you sir." Gunther then moved forward, asking, "I'd planned on making my way to the mess. Are you going that way too?"

"I'm not," Spencer answered plainly, and his expression spoke volumes. "Because I've got some paperwork to do."

"No problem sir," Gunther replied, portraying an apologetic demeanor. Gunther watched Spencer leave the room, the door sliding closed behind him. "Hmm," Gunther spoke to himself as he started toward the opposite door. "A week's pay, huh?" Gunther shrugged and then a smirk creased his face. "That's a fair trade for setting some Marines crapping in their suits." He chuckled a bit under his breath.

Gunther moved toward the elevator door, pushing the button to head for the rotator / transfer ring and the mess on Habitat 1. "Hmm, damn I'm hungry," he exclaimed aloud, holding his stomach. Gunther looked at down at the floor and thought to himself. I wonder if the marines are eating right now. Maybe I should wait for a bit. A smile then curled on his face. No, I could issue a formal apology to-- However, Gunther's train of thought was interrupted by the lift door opening. There standing in the elevator was the most beautiful woman Gunther had ever seen, but then something even more amazing happened, she looked him in the eye. Her casual gaze pierced Gunther like Cupid's Arrow. He stood there, speechless.

"Going aft?" the woman asked, a hint of a tickling scratch in her otherwise warm and pleasant voice.

Her voice!

It was the flight controller, there couldn't be a doubt. She sounded even better in person than she did over the comm, and good God she looked good. Under her crisp white uniform, the womanizing pilot's accomplished eye could tell that her body was trim and lean, but enticingly rounded in all the right places. Silky, shoulder-length, dark blue hair framed her beautiful face; her facial features were delicate, flawless -- almost otherworldly. And her eyes -- her eyes were a deep, pure green that Gunther had never seen before... and that looked straight into his soul. A line of drool threatened to fall from the corner of the man's open mouth as the woman spoke to him again.

"Lieutenant?" she said, seeing his rank on his collar, "Are you alright?"

Gunther could hear her beautiful voice echoing through his head, then, realizing that he was about to drool, he pulled himself together. "Yes, yes," he responded to-- who was she? He glanced at the call tag on her shirt. Still trying to collect himself, he finished, "Yes, Miss... I mean, Corporal Wickter. As a matter of fact I am. I guess I'm just hungry. It's been a long shift." He stepped onto the lift and the door closed behind him.

Now in close proximity to the woman, another of Gunther's senses was bombarded. He couldn't place the scent -- it wasn't particularly perfumey or flowery -- but it was utterly divine. Where had this woman been his whole life?

"Yes, it has," Wickter agreed, her incredible eyes on the wall readout that showed the lift's current location on a cut-away of the ship. "That burn was really pretty jarring, and when you combine that with our hasty preparations for departure and also crewmembers who don't follow protocol and don't listen to explicit instructions that are meant only for their safety and the safety of others... well, it was a long shift indeed."

Quick to notice that she was partly referring to his little stunt with the marines, Gunther almost panicked but gained some composure. "Yes," he affirmed. "I can understand how that could make anyone's day stressful." He moved his head to try and gaze into those dreamy eyes. "So, you're new on board aren't you? By your uniform, I'd guess you're with bridge crew. Where did they end up bunking you?"

Wickter kept her eyes on the panel in front of her, watching the elevator indicator move towards the rear of the ship. "I don't see how that's any business of yours, Lieutenant Gunther," she commented mildly, finally turning to look at the man again. "And I'm not bridge crew. I work in the communication center."

"Right, right," Gunther stated apologetically. "I'm sorry, it isn't any of my business." Gunther realized that he had looked away due to the boldness of her answer. He forced himself to look back up at her. "I saw your name on your uniform, but I wasn't sure where you were stationed. Bad call," Gunther admitted. "I apologize on all counts. However, you have me at a disadvantage as you seem to know exactly who I am."

Wickter almost cracked a smile. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you don't have the faintest idea who I am, considering how well you ignored me a couple of hours ago when I was merely a voice in your helmet." The gorgeous woman paused briefly, cocked one perfect eyebrow, then added in a matter-of-fact tone, "Swallow Flight, you are off-course for approach and coming in too fast, copy?"

"Ah yes," Gunther acknowledged, still feeling strangely uncomfortable. He wasn't used to feeling overpowered by a woman. It made him feel sheepish, but he was finding that he liked this woman even more second by second. Not only was this woman a goddess; she could disarm him with her femininity, and those eyes, damn. Somehow he had to get the upper hand, play with her a bit and test her responses. "You're... sexy," Gunther winced slightly as if bracing for a crushing rhetorical blow.

"My name," the woman said evenly, "is Isabel. Wickter, as you see on my uniform. Corporal Isabel Wickter. 'Flight control' will also do while you're in the air; 'sexy' will not." Turning back to look at the position of the elevator and the upcoming deck designation, she touched a button and announced, "This is my deck. It's been nice chatting with you, Lieutenant."

As the woman walked out, Gunther waved, calling out, "Sorry. I'll remember that, Corporal Wickter." As the lift door automatically closed, Gunther stepped back and leaned against the back wall, where he slid to the floor, his heart racing. "Wow! What a woman! She's a bit feisty though, but oh, what a dream!" Gunther paused a moment, thinking. "However, I definitely haven't made a good first impression. I'll need to change that. Hmm, perhaps Flight Control with some natural charm will do fine for next patrol."

The lift started to move again, and Gunther looked up at the control console. Wickter had apparently been kind enough to press the button for his floor. Either she was being curious, or she just wanted to ensure that Gunther didn't hang out at her stop.

Hearing the light ding, Gunther jumped to his feet just as the door slid open. "Well, I might as well get something to eat." The pilot made his way through the rotation collar's transfer hall and up the transfer well to the habitation module accessway. Once inside the actual habitation module, he took the passage leading to the 2nd floor to the mess hall. Feeling more relaxed about his run in with the beautiful Miss Wickter, he confidently opened the doorway to the mess hall and stepped inside.

A little groggy, Jan Eroll wiped the sleep from his eyes with the back of one of his hands while opening his cabin door with the other. Squinting into the glare beyond his door, he stood, quiet, not sure of what to make of the Private standing outside.

"Eroll?" Arianna Cyan asked, genuinely shocked by his scruffy off-duty appearance. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to get some sleep," he answered, annoyed, trying to stifle a yawn. His tone turning from annoyance to actual anger, he demanded, "What are you doing here? What time is it?"

"It's just past 0000 hours," Arianna snapped back. "Were you sleeping?"

"Yeah, until I got slammed into the back of my bunk," he answered. "What the hell were you doing?"

"The main burn," she answered.

"At nearly a full gee?" Eroll shouted. "I nearly broke out of my sleeping harness!"

"What kind of idiot tries to sleep during a full burn? Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"Cyan, I start my shift in a few hours. I was really hoping to get some..."

Private Cyan pushed her way into Eroll's quarters before he could finish his sentence. "No lights?"

"I told you, I was trying to sleep," Eroll repeated, slamming the door leading into his cramped quarters. Fumbling for the panel on the wall, Eroll switched on the lights, asking, "What do you want, Cyan?"

"Poulo just chewed me out," Cyan announced.

"For that burn? What did you think he'd do?" Eroll asked.

"The captain didn't seem to mind!" Cyan argued. "I kind of think she dug it."

"The captain?" Eroll blinked, a little stunned. "I don't think she's the kind of woman who "digs" anything, let alone a high-acceleration burn. Cyan, seriously, what are you doing here?"

"I told you, Poulo just chewed me out," Cyan protested. "And can you believe it? It was so great! My first main thruster burn! Oh, man, this baby just shot forward like she'd finally gotten let off her chain. It was unbelievable!"

"So you came here to tell me?" Eroll asked.

"Eroll, this is serious!"

"Cyan, this is not a good time!" Eroll argued. "Don't you have someone else you can complain to? It's a big ship, Cyan. You don't have any other friends?"

Arianna paused for a moment, quiet, before answering softly, "No."

"Oh," Jan answered. "I'm sorry."

"Forget it," Cyan said, rushing out of Eroll's quarters. "Just forget it."

"Arianna, wait," Eroll called after the girl, who was already making her way down the hallway outside his room. "Aw, shit," he exclaimed quietly, moving out into the passage to go after her. He there realized that he was wearing only his underwear, but he pursued the young helmsman anyway.

Private Arianna Cyan stopped and turned to face Helmsman Eroll, who was running after her. Doing everything but tap her foot in an agitated display, Arianna's posture and scowl said everything that needed to be said about her mood.

"Arianna, Poulo is hard on everyone -- it's just his way. You'll have to develop a thicker skin. And maybe take your foot off the pedal a little..."

"The thickness of my skin isn't the issue, Jan!" Arianna roared. "My course was better than Orr's! My maneuvering abilities are better than Poulo's! The only thing either of them do better than me is wear a skirt!"

As the two stood motionless, neither very sure of what to say next, missile specialist Lana Epsilon walked up. Seeing Corporal Eroll in the hall, wearing nothing but his underwear, the young Private stopped and stood at sharp attention. Bringing her arm up in a smart salute, she announced, "Sir!"

Eroll, stunned, stood at attention and returned the salute, mumbling, "You don't need to salute me, Private."

"Thank you, sir!" she shouted, loud enough that Eroll and Cyan cringed under the volume. "Good to see you again, sir!"

She lowered her arm and began to march off, stifling a giggle, but still glowing a brilliant shade of pink on her cheeks.

"Do you see what you've reduced me to, Cyan?" Jan sighed. "I should be sleeping right now! I've got duty in a few hours!"

"I thought you would have wanted to hear about my first burn," Arianna said, nearly whining.

Eroll slapped his hand loudly onto his balding forehead. He wasn't sure what was coming next -- waterworks or a full-blown tantrum, but he did know he didn't want to experience either. "Arianna," he began slowly, "I would love to hear about your first burn, and about how much of a jerk Poulo was being. But can I get some pants first?"

"Fine," Arianna sniffed.

Jan ducked quickly back into his quarters and returned wearing a pair of close-fitting black shorts and a red and white jersey. "Let's go on down to the mess so I can at least get some coffee," he stated, mussing with what was left of his hair in an effort to get it under control.

Her empty stomach still growling, Lieutenant McGregor stopped outside Senior Lieutenant Emile Messier's quarters in the main hull of the Fierce. She keyed his intercom and announced herself. "Excuse me, Lieutenant Messier. It's Lieutenant McGregor. Sorry to bother you at this hour, but I'm wondering if we might be able to meet in private for a few moments to brief me on the current operation."

Messier opened the door to his office almost before McGregor took her finger off the intercom. "Certainly, Lieutenant, come in," he welcomed, allowing the woman to step through the door. "I'd planned on briefing you when I spoke with the section heads at 0400, but I have a few moments right now. How much do you know?"

"Thanks, sir," she replied, giving the office a quick glance-over. "I don't know anything about the current burn. It doesn't feel like we're off to battle, but that's just intuition, not fact-based observation. What's the situation?"

The room was small but not cramped -- a good place for one-on-on meetings. Overall, it felt very tidy, almost unused. There were few obvious adornments, save the picture of President Itangre on the wall. "Well," Messier began, sitting down and gesturing for McGregor to do the same, "I presume you're familiar with the Hanson Circuit, and with the huge booster sleds used to ferry cargo and people between the Jovian states... it seems one of them isn't behaving. It didn't drop its cargo liners before heading off for a low orbit around the sun, and that cargo happens to contain more than 900 people."

McGregor raised an eyebrow in concern. "Wonderful," she replied. "I'm reasonably familiar with the system, and the fact that it's the cheapest way to get between the States. The sleds are well known for being utterly devoid of anything valuable." She tapped her fingertips against the arms of the chair. "I assume we're getting involved?"

"The Fierce is currently on an intercept course -- provided the sled hasn't changed course or speed itself. Several JAF ships are en route, chasing this thing, but we should be first in. The fighter squadron will check it out initially, do some surveilling. If we've got hostiles we'll send in the marines. If its something else entirely, like a malfunction, we'll need to deal with that on a case-by-case basis. Frankly, we just don't know what the hell happened. Our first priority is to determine why it didn't drop those cargo pods."

"Ah," she said, nodding as she pondered the situation. "Surveillance is what I know best, of course. This sounds like it might make a good field test of my package. You'll be down a combat unit if things get hot, but like I said in my briefing the other day, you'll have so much intel on the site you won't need the additional guns."

"The captain, Lieutenant Spencer and I have already talked about that, and would like to formally ask for your participation on this mission. Your trials weren't slated to begin until well into next week, but if you're ready to go in, say, 30 hours time, we can use you. Even earlier, depending on the range of your equipment. When can you be ready to go?"

McGregor flipped open her PDA to make some notes. "I'll need some dedicated crew down in Bay 5. The unit has to be unpacked. That's two hours of basic labor with a team of four. Thanks to the boys and girls of R&D for finally developing a crate that can be unpacked quickly. System overhaul is a little more tricky. Eight hours with a team of three: I need two class-B or better rated mechanics and electronics technicians down there for that, plus a class-C for the more minor stuff. We can shave two hours off of that with an additional class-B technician to go over the drones. Eight hours to calibrate the sensors; two crew only, class-C certifications in electronics -- it's all largely self-calibrating, but the executor still needs supervision. That's 16 to 18 total so far. Eight hours to mount the ATMP to a Lancer. Four to unmount the previous one, though that can be done in parallel with the calibration period if you can spare the crew. That's 24 hours at best, 26 hours or 30 hours at worst." She reviewed her notes. "Looks like I can/will have to catch some shut-eye while mounting the pod. I don't need to be there for that."

Messier raised one eyebrow slightly. "You'll have all the support staff you need. Talk to Lieutenant Tweet and Chief Jones about getting the personnel you need. Just don't kill yourself, Lieutenant. We'll be able to use it if you can get it prepped early, but remember that you're the only one that can man the pod. You'll need to be fresh out there."

McGregor nodded in appreciation. "No, sir, I don't think that will be a problem. If I sleep while the crew is fitting the ATMP, I'll be alert during the flight. I will have to catch a few winks here soon, though, right after I grab some chow in the galley." Rising to leave, McGregor gave a loose salute. "Thanks for the update, Lieutenant. I'll see you at 0400."

Messier returned the salute, though his was crisp and practiced.

McGregor straightened up her posture and her salute. "Sorry, sir. The salute is about the only thing we're lax on in Intel," she said, smiling.

As she walked down the corridor to the lift, she shook her head sadly. "Idiots," she muttered softly. "Idiots, idiots, idiots."

Lieutenant Gunther entered the galley with a smirk on his face. It had been an interesting day so far, at least. Now, here in one of the ship's two big mess halls, a substantial portion of the off-duty crew had gathered to eat, relax and discuss all the things that had happened in the last few hours. Why was the ship underway? Was there really another CEGAn fleet inbound from the Belt? What the hell was that rough burn all about? Those questions and more were being debated fiercely all around the room; the noise level was truly impressive as the pilot looked around for a group to join.

The marines were here -- a bunch of them, at least -- along with members of engineering, the deck crew (Booger and Loogie were playing cards in the corner with someone; it was hard to tell who since the overhead light nearest them had burned out) and some of Gunther's fellow squadron members. Dee Dee was arguing emphatically with Sergeant McLean, Corporal Montreal and Private Meltwater. Gunther smiled like a proud father.

"That's so small-minded," the short young woman said with a shake of her red-curled head. "Do you really think all Earthers want to go to war, want to see the Confederation in ruins?"

"Aye, absolutely," McLean retorted, slamming his meaty fist onto the table, making Meltwater jump.

"They are jealous of us, Dee Dee," Montreal said lowly, barely audible above the din of the mess. His eyes held their usual haunted cast. "Envy breeds hatred... envy breeds contempt."

Seeing her wing leader squeezing his way along towards their table, Dee Dee grinned. "Hey, m-bird, you made it. Did Snipe chew you a new one?"

Gunther shrugged. "What do you think? Yeah, but it wasn't the marines that pressured Snipe. It seems that Corporal Wickter from Flight Control filed an official report on the incident," Gunther explained, setting his tray on the table beside Montreal. He motioned to Montreal to shuffle over a bit to give Gunther room to sit. In sitting down, Gunther continued, "I guess she didn't think too highly of being called 'sexy' either. I had the mixed fortune of meeting her in the elevator on the way down."

"Mixed fortune?" Montreal asked.

"Ah, you know what I mean," Gunther shrugged, trying to avoid the question. "She was really pissed off."

McLean smiled. "She? Och, no problem, then lad, is there? Just charm the pants off of her like you've done with the rest of the women on this ship."

Dee Dee frowned. "Hey, he hasn't charmed the pants off of all of us!"

"I'm not counting you, Dee," McLean said, his eyes twinkling.

"And why not?"

"Because you'd drop your drawers for just about half the crew," the man said with a hearty laugh.

"WHAT?!" Durst howled. Leaping across the table, she tackled the big man and knocked him backwards into a pack of other crewmen. The whole pile of them went down, chairs, food and cutlery flying. Dee Dee managed to stay on top, and gripped McLean by his collar as he continued to laugh at her. "You take that back, you loud-mouthed hunk of recyc goo!"

As the drama unfolded, Montreal leaned over to Gunther as though none of it were happening. "So... tell me more about this Corporal Wickter. I have heard that she is gorgeous..."

Gunther patted Montreal on the shoulder. "Later, not now." Gunther then turned to the ruckus at hand, moving to pull Durst back. "Dee Dee, let him go."

The girl sputtered and growled as Gunther lifted her off of McLean. In a few seconds he was back up on his feet, as were most of the crew he'd bowled into. "I'm just kidding you, lass," the burly pilot said with a chuckle. "You're too tempting to tease with that temper of yours."

Gunther plunked Durst back down into her seat, though she was still fuming. He leaned in close to here ear and whispered, "We need to be careful for the next week or two. There are other ways of dealing with Fenris, trust me."

Dee Dee relaxed and gained control of herself. "Yeah, she agreed. "Painful ones, I hope."

As McLean reclaimed his place at the table as well, a strong hand landed on his shoulder. He turned and found himself confronted by a very large pair of breasts. "Oh my. Magnus McLean, at your service," he said politely to the breasts. When he didn't get a response, McLean looked up at the woman's face. "Ah, there you are. What can I do for you, La Rue?"

"You just ruined my dinner," Corporal La Rue said dangerously. Stains were indeed evident on the woman's blue and white marine-issue tank top.

McLean looked the woman up and down. "You certainly look healthy enough. Missing one meal probably won't hurt you too much."

One of La Rue's eyes twitched, and she lifted the big man right out of his seat. Balling and drawing back her right hand, she held the surprised McLean with her left. "You asked for this," she said with no small amount of satisfaction.

Gunther spoke aloud to himself, "Why do I get the feeling that I will be grounded by the day's end?" Getting up, he was about to attempt to defuse the situation when he accidentally stepped directly into La Rue's wind-up. Her knuckles caught him solidly on the nose, breaking it, and Gunther stumbled back and fell to the deck in a spray of blood as people on all sides gasped and got to their feet to see what would happen next.

La Rue immediately let go of McLean and turned towards the downed pilot. Seeing who it was, as well as the bright blood on his white shirt and flight jacket, she cursed. "Oh for -- shit. Shit! Gunther, I didn't mean to hit you... I was trying to--"

"Hit me, we know," McLean interjected, helping Gunther to his feet. "And I appreciate your taking the shot for me, Lieutenant, I really do. Very noble of you." Dee Dee rushed in with a handful of napkins to try and stem the blood flowing from the man's nose.

La Rue's powerful shoulders sagged visibly, and she sighed. "Are you going to report me for this?" she asked plainly.

Before Gunther could remove the wad of napkins to speak, a newcomer joined the scene -- Vice Valkurie. Just the person he'd wanted to see.

Valkurie was smiling. "I'm sorry I'm late," he began. He hadn't witnessed the scuffle, but it wasn't difficult to tell what had happened. "Did I miss much?"

"What's going on over there?" Jan wondered aloud, looking at a crowd of people, numerous marines and Redtails among them.

"I don't know, they're just fighter and exo pilots," Arianna scoffed. "It's bad enough they can't handle flying anything more than their little toys, but they can't even behave themselves either. Anyway, you're not listening!"

Eroll looked back at the young girl. "Oh, right." He slurped his coffee. "So tell me what happened next."

End Week 1 Summary (June 10-16, 2002)

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ALL SYSTEMS GO is set in Dream Pod 9's Jovian Chronicles universe. Jovian Chronicles, the Jovian Chronicles logo and Silhouette are trademarks of Dream Pod 9, Inc. Exo-armor, Jovian Confederation, CEGA, Silhouette and all other names, logos and specific game terms are (c)1993, 2002; all Jovian Chronicles art and designs are Copyright (c)1994-2002 Dream Pod 9, Inc. No challenge to these copyrights and trademarks is intended.

Except where noted, all original content is copyright 2002 John Guilfoyle, Alistair Gillies, Chris Schaller, Robb Neumann, Dennis Kirkpatrick and Bryan Lee. Page last updated on September 30th, 2002.